lish war-songs has preserved the memory of the fight
that went on from sunrise to sunset. The stubborn-
ness of the combat proves that brave men fought on
either side. The shield-wall of the Northmen stood
long against the swords of Æthelstan and his brother
Eadmund; the Scots fought on till they were "weary
with war." But the West Saxons, "in bands of cho-
sen ones," hewed their way steadily through the mass-
es of their foe, their Mercian fellow-warriors "refused
not the hard hand-play," and at sunset the motley
host broke in wild flight. "The Danes," shouts the
exulting singer, "had no ground for laughter when
they played on the field of slaughter with Eadward's
children." Five of their kings and seven of their jarls
lay among the countless dead. Olaf ¹ only saved his
life by hastily shoving out his boat to sea and steer-
ing for Dublin with the remnant of his men, while
Constantine left his son covered with death-wounds
in the midst of his slaughtered war-band. The old
king's faithlessness had stirred a special hatred in
the conquerors. "There fled he -- wise as he was --
to his northern land! No cause had he, the hoary
fighting man, for gladness in that fellowship of
swords! no cause had he, the gray-haired lord, the
old deceiver, for boastfulness in the bill-crashing." ²

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